


And Borrowing the Moonlight

by 0hHeyThereBigBadWolf



Category: The Librarians (TV 2014)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Animal Death, Hunting, M/M, POV Animal, Werewolf Ezekiel Jones
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-02-20
Updated: 2018-02-20
Packaged: 2019-03-21 20:41:11
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,066
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13748856
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/0hHeyThereBigBadWolf/pseuds/0hHeyThereBigBadWolf
Summary: Ezekiel does not fully trust the wolf. Even the most loyal pets can turn on the owners, and the wolf is not anything close to a pet. Which is why he asks that his team leave him alone on the full moons. Hook up the Back Door to a hunting cabin far away from civilization and let him go for the night. And they do.Most of them, anyways.





	And Borrowing the Moonlight

**Author's Note:**

> Base idea of this is that in "And The Fangs of Death," Ezekiel's lycanthropy isn't totally cured, just somewhat treated, and he ends up as a kind of skinchanger/shapeshifter instead of a full lycanthrope. Also, I don’t really buy into the idea that when a wereanimal changes form, they fall into a KILL EVERYTHING mentality. Sorry, but I just don’t. Real animals don’t work like that, and since wereanimals are part human, even subconsciously, I doubt wereanimals would work like that. He's not 100% cognizant when he's in wolf form, but he's not looking for throats to tear, and he does on some level recognise his teammates and sees them as pack.

_"Who's that I see walkin' in these woods?_  
_Why, it's Little Red Riding Hood!_

 _Hey there, Little Red Riding Hood._  
_You sure are looking good._  
_You're everything that a big bad wolf would want."_

(Li'l Red Riding Hood—Sam the Sham & The Pharaohs)

* * *

The wolf pulls himself free of the other-self's body in a glorious rush of pain and freedom.

He knows that he is very far from pack and den, but here is hunting ground, open and clean and free, away from all the noisy two-legged animals that he sometimes is as his other-self. He rolls in the long, fragrant grasses and scents the air. Oh, so many lovely scents. There is rabbit and squirrel and deer, and he must have startled a serpent, he hears it sluicing away through the grass, leaving its warning musk behind. He snorts and ignores it.

The wolf wants to be off, but he stays, lingering near the wooden box that smells so faintly of smoke and human, waiting until there is a bright flare of light from inside, a new scent and a new heartbeat appearing. Ah, there is mate!

His mate steps outside, and the wolf leaps over to him happily, taking great gusts of breath to scent him. Mate smells like other-self and fresh-dug earth and apples, and like leather and wood and paper, the scent of the den, where the pack lives. His mate kneels down in the grasses, and the wolf huffs happily, rubbing his jaw along mate to scent mark him, letting his mate rough his fur playfully and scratch behind his ears, which is so very pleasant.

Mate has something with him, something that smells like metal and oil and chemicals, and the wolf knows what it is. Alpha carries one with her; it is smaller but smells the same. It makes a terrible thunder and spits metal teeth that kill, but the wolf isn't bothered. Mate won't hurt him, and if he has it, that means that they are going to hunt together.

The wolf gleefully springs away and begins searching for the strongest scent trail, darting ahead to follow it. He doubles back to make sure that his mate is following and has not lost the trail. Mate is slower than him, but he moves well, making little noise and keeping good pace.

Soon, he finds their prey: a small herd of deer, bedding down in a thick copse of trees.

Mate does not need to be guided to stay upwind of them, but the wolf sees the problem. His mate cannot hunt in the copse, it is too thick, and he needs to see the prey clearly to use the metal teeth. The wolf thinks they will give up the hunt, go for smaller game, but mate points outwards, to a wide clearing just to the left of the herd, open and empty in the cool moonlight. Mate points to the wolf, then to the trees, then out to the meadow again, and the wolf understands. He will flush out the prey, startle them into the meadow, and mate will hunt them then.

The wolf huffs softly, pleased, proud that he has such a clever mate.

He waits, watching as his mate moves to the edge of the meadow and finds a place to get down, bracing himself against a toppled tree. Once his mate gestures again, the wolf is off. He darts right, circling around the trees until he is directly alongside the herd, and then he springs towards them.

The wolf cannot hunt deer on his own. He would need all of the pack to do that. He is swift and strong, and his jaws are bone-crushingly powerful, but he has memories, old memories from those who came before. A well-aimed kick with hard hooves can cave in a skull. Sharp tines on antlers can fit between ribs and pierce lungs. But he does not need to get that close this time. Now, he simply darts to and fro amongst them, making noise and snapping his jaws loudly near them, startling them from rest.

Terrified of his scent so close, the prey bolts, and he stays along behind them, snapping at their heels whilst staying out of reach. He moves to make sure they spill into the meadow and not further into the trees, to where his clever mate is waiting. The prey does not know that mate is hiding. Mate is upwind, and by the time they realise, it will be too late.

The wolf pursues to the edge of the meadow and stops despite wanting to keep going, to pace them. The terrible thunder splits the night, and he shies away from it instinctively, ears pinning back from the sound.

The herd scatters. One deer falters, staggering, and the wolf suddenly smells blood.

He darts forward, across the meadow to the prey that is still alive, but only just, and falls in alongside it, smelling the acrid musk of fear and blood. It is a stag, proud and young, but the wolf knows that he is more than a match for it now. He lunges, closes his jaws around the strong throat, and bites down, severing the throbbing veins and crushing the windpipe at once. Prey is prey, but it does not need to suffer.

He waits beside the prey as mate makes his way across the clearing. Mate strokes his ears again and takes out a long, shiny metal fang, using it to cut open the prey, pulling back the hide. The wolf lets him and waits, having seen this before. His mate does not eat with him, but he takes parts of the prey back to the den, to share with the other-self and the rest of the pack. Once he's done, the wolf gets to have all the good parts left behind, like the heart and the liver and the bones; he has such a wonderful mate.

His mate packs away the meat in the large pouch that he has brought with him, cleans the blood off the metal fang, and moves away, sitting down in the grass. The wolf goes to eat. 

Once he's eaten his fill, he goes to lay down beside mate, leaning up against him. He breaks off one of the stag's antlers and gnaws on it happily. Mate strokes his ears slowly and roughs his fur with chafing tenderness; it is a strange sensation, but the wolf likes it. Mate makes strings of complicated noises with his mouth, and it doesn't seem to bother him that the wolf can't understand. He likes the noises that his mate makes, anyways; they have a pleasant rumble to them. He just leans up against his mate and gnaws on the antler contentedly.

Soon, though, the wolf feels the night shift around them, tilting towards daylight once more, and he whines mournfully. Soon he will be his other-self again, and the wolf will not get to hunt with his mate again until the moon darkness comes and goes away again. Mate senses his reluctance and strokes his ears again, gently, and makes those low, soothing noises again.

The wolf whines and follows dejectedly when his mate pulls away and gets up, taking the pouch with the meat and the thing that spits teeth with him, walking back towards the wooden box that will take them back to the den and the pack.

The wolf doesn't like going through the passageway to get to the den. It makes his fur prickle and his ears hurt. But his mate is waiting for him, so he goes anyways. A low whimper escapes him when the passageway closes, and he is cut off from the outside until the next hunt.

The den is empty and quiet. The pack must be asleep already, their scents are still strong, lingering on all the surfaces; he hears movement, faintly, but he knows that it is the wise one, oldest in the pack, and doesn't growl. Mate crouches beside him, rumbling soothingly, and the wolf nuzzles against him, scent-marking him once more before his mate stands and walks away, going to put away the thing that spits teeth and the meat for the pack.

The wolf trots through the den to where his other-self's scent is the strongest, though his mate's scent lingers everywhere in here, too, and jumps onto the soft, springy bed-nest where the other-self sleeps. He sets the antler down beside him to give to his mate later, circles around once, twice, and lays down; he curls up tightly, covers his nose with his tail, and closes his eyes.

* * *

Ezekiel sits up slowly in his bed, groaning quietly. 

The change takes a lot out of him. Jenkins says that it gets better with time, that it's like a muscle being stretched. The more it works, the stronger it gets, and in a year or less, he'll be able to shift with no pain at all. But that's a long way away, and he feels like he's just been run over by a Mack truck going downhill with no brakes. He can smell the wolf in the blankets, the wild muskiness that he'll have to wash out, and he can faintly taste blood in his mouth. The wolf must've gone hunting.

He starts to roll to his feet and stops short when something hard and pointy jabs at him through the blankets.

It's an antler, covered in gnaw marks. Ezekiel stares at it for a long moment, then shakes his head and sets it on the bedside table. Whoever let him into the Annex with that, yeah, they are so _not_ funny. At least Jake hasn't come to wake him up; the cowboy will take the mickey out of him for days if he ever sees Ezekiel with an antler chew toy in bed.

Once he manages to get dressed and brush his teeth to remove the traces of blood, he shuffles downstairs to the Annex kitchen. Everyone else is already awake, even Flynn, but that's largely due to the fact that Eve's practically pouring coffee down his throat. 

Cassandra is her usual bright-eyed, bushy-tailed self, and as much as he enjoys her enthusiasm most days, today is  _not_ one of them. Thankfully, though, she notices that right away and eases back on the exuberance. She sets down a cuppa in front of him; the redhead's the only person he allows anywhere near his Darjeeling. "Toast?" she offers, and he nods gratefully.

Eve has coaxed Flynn mostly to consciousness when Jacob walks into the kitchen, coffee in hand. "Morning, Jones," he said as he leans over to snatch a slice of bacon off Flynn's plate; the senior Librarian immediately jerks awake after that, pulling his plate closer to him defensively.

"Morning. Who let me in here carrying an  _antler_ last night?" he asks.

"That would be me, Mr. Jones," Jenkins says after a long pause. "Your alter ego was quite intent on holding onto it, I'm afraid."

Jake smiles into his coffee, and Ezekiel thinks that if he angles it right, he can kick his boyfriend under the table without hitting Eve by mistake. At least it was Jenkins who let him in. He doesn't trust the wolf around the others yet. He doesn't remember much of anything after the shift, and the last thing he wants is to wake up one morning to find one of his teammates missing fingers. Or a throat.

After a few moments of relative quiet, broken only by quiet comments of "pass the marmalade" and "more toast, anyone?" Ezekiel is feeling a whole lot less achy and sore, sitting up a bit more in his chair.

"Is everyone cool with me making dinner tonight?" Jake asks.

"Absolutely. We need to cut back on the takeout," Eve agrees, poking Flynn in the stomach playfully; he flushes and bats her hand away.

"What are we having?" Cassandra asks, almost bouncing. Ezekiel can't blame her; the cowboy's a fine cook.

Jake sits back in his chair and gives her an almost beatific smile, though his eyes dart over to Ezekiel for the briefest second. "Venison."

* * *

 _"Is that the big bad wolf I see?  
_ _Why, this cad's following me!_

 _Hey there, big bad wolf._  
_You've been following me through the woods._  
 _You are the guy that I've been waiting for."_

(Big Bad Wolf—The Shamettes)


End file.
